


Coming Home

by accept_n_destroy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink, Feel bad for Lestrade, Fluff, Husbands, Husbands AU, John calls Sally and Anderson juvenile, John is just as good at deducting as Sherlock, M/M, alternative universe, coming home, deductive!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 17:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12775455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accept_n_destroy/pseuds/accept_n_destroy
Summary: John's been in Afghanistan for three years, Sherlock hasn't heard from him in two weeks and has begun to worry, but a surprise visitor shows up while he's at a crime scene





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> I know this has been done a thousand times, but I just love it so much, I had to contribute

It was the first day in five days it hadn't rained. This wouldn't normally be something that Sherlock paid much mind to. Weather tended to get filed in the back of his head automatically without real conscious thought, on the off chance it became relevant to a deduction at a later date. However, the constant downpour that had been tormenting London until midday yesterday had provided a constant ambient noise that had almost succeeded in neutralizing the cacophony of worry and dread that was currently pounding erratically against his temples.

It had been two weeks since Sherlock had received a letter, a call, or a notification of any kind from John.

It wasn't the first time word from John had been infrequent, he was used to going a week without word, maybe even a week and a half. But whenever it went beyond that, Sherlock had always received word from Mycroft that all was well and that he need not fret.

He stared at his phone on the end table, cursing its silence. He could always call Mycroft himself, but even in the near delirium his worry had sent his mind into, he knew that if Mycroft thought he needn't worry he would've received word.

So, there he lay, hair damp from the shower he had finally forced himself into-due to a voice in his head that sounded an awfully lot like John-after a week without leaving the sitting area. Seven nicotine patches littered each arm in a near hysterical attempt not to pick up the habit that John so hated. Ten full cups of long-cold tea and plates of untouched sandwiches littered the coffee table, each one a good natured, if not desperate, attempt from Ms. Hudson to keep him alive.

When his phone lit up for the first time in two weeks, the ping of a text notification sounding like a crack of thunder in the deafeningly silent flat, Sherlock quite literally launched himself from the couch to read it, knocking over and shattering several of the more haphazardly placed tea cups in his way.

His breath stilled and his heartbeat hammered heavy against his ribs as he unlocked the phone, hope and dread fighting wildly in his veins.

"Need help for a case. Message if you're interested. GL"

Sherlock nearly sank to the floor, disappointment filling his gut like lead. He tried, like he had been trying for days now, to tell himself that no news was good news. But, in the end, he told himself that he knew better than that, that he knew that he would much rather receive bad news than torture himself with the unknown.

He considered, for a moment, ignoring Lestrade or telling him to piss off, but he decided that a distraction might help ease his mind a bit.

"Text me the address. Better not be boring. SH"

-x-

"You should have called him, Mycroft." John scolded, his fingers drumming impatiently against the expensive black leather seat of the town car, his army fatigues suddenly feeling too rough against his skin.

"Yes, yes, well, you know how he is, if I'd told him what happened he would've insisted he be flown down." Mycroft waved his hand dismissively, crossing his legs in a gesture that almost would've seemed defensive.

"So, instead you let him worry himself sick," John frowned, "god, he's probably taken up smoking again."

"No, no, I know you'd have my head if I let that happen and we can't have that now," he sent John a fond, apologetic smile, "I don't envy you, he's a lot to keep up with."

"Oh don't pretend you don't keep up with the both of us anyway," John rolled his eyes before returning the smile, "but, really," he reached across the car to set his hand atop Mycrofts, ignoring the slight tremor of the appendage that came with the action, "thank you for watching out for him."

"I'm just glad you're home safe now, John," Mycroft patted John's hand with his free one, "I'd much rather you two get into trouble here, together, than thousands of miles apart, much easier to keep an eye on."

John let out a laugh at that, settling back into his seat, "me too."

A moment later, they pulled up to a house in Laurison Gardens, the surrounding area blocked off by yellow police tape. John climbed, not quite gracefully, out of the car.

"Do you want me to stick around, drive you both home?" Mycroft offered from inside the car.

"No, no, we'll find our way back," John smiled, patting the roof of the car, "thank you, again."

At that, John closed the door and the car rolled away, leaving him alone, cane in hand. With a deep breath, John turned on not quite stable legs, and approached the tape.

"Evening," John greeted the woman standing guard, "I'm here for Sherlock, I believe he's inside."

Sally quirked an eyebrow, "Military's finally come to lock him away?"

John, to his credit, did not respond to the jab. "I take it he's here then," he said with a tight smile.

"Yeah," Sally clicked her tongue, "this area's closed off though, innit? Authorized personnel only."

"Well, lucky for me then," John dug into his pocket for a moment, producing a badge with a Developed Vetting clearance level that he honestly had no business having, a gift from Mycroft of course, "I believe this makes me authorized, doesn't it?"

"Right then," Sally said, her eyebrows drawn as she put her talkie to her mouth, "Anderson, tell the freak there's a military bloke here to see him." Sally turned back to him, "are you actually here to take him off to some high security loony bin?" Her voice too eager for John's liking, "it's 'bout bloody time."

John, again, ignored the jab, wanting to get to Sherlock with as little delays as possible.

-x-

"Sherlock," Lestrade started, hesitant to interrupt Sherlock's process, "Anderson says there's a military officer here to see you."

Sherlock's shoulders stiffened, whatever words he had been about to say sticking against his throat.

If military personnel was here to see him, that meant one of two things, it was either John coming home or an officer come to notify him of his death.

Sherlock's mind was, for the first time, at a complete gridlock. If it was John, then Sherlock did not want to spend one more second out of his presence, he wanted to race down the stairs and never leave his side again. However, if he went down, if he let himself hope, and it was not John, then Sherlock knew, as he had known since John left three years prior, that that would be the end of him. A world without John was not a world that Sherlock found himself willing to live in, there was no joy in detective work, deductions, or experiments if there was no John to share them with.

He had been wrong before. Living with the unknown was so much easier than it would be to live a life knowing John would never return to him.

So there he stayed, crouched beside the body of a woman, deaf to everything beside his own reeling mind. Which is why he did not hear the sounds of uneven footsteps, accompanied by the intermittent click of a cane and the frustrated protests of Sally Donovan.

It was not until those uneven footsteps stopped just inside the door and a voice that eased every nerve in his body and cut through his overwhelming thoughts filled the now quiet room.

"My brilliant detective, I got tired of waiting for you to deduce if I'm dead or not, sorry to intrude."

Sherlock stood slowly, stoic to the untrained eye, before turning on his heels to face the owner of the voice.

There John stood, looking stolid and imposing even with his bad arm in a sling.

It took all Sherlock's willpower to keep himself from trembling at the sight before him, "you got shot." The words gripping his heart like a vice, "why the limp?"

"Purely psychosomatic, a tremor just the same as well, I'm sure it'll go away as soon as things return to normal," John offered him a smile that felt like home, "I've been relieved of duty."

"Oh thank god." At that, Sherlock nearly ran the few feet of distance that separated them until he could wrap John in his arms.

"I'm so sorry I made you worry," John whispered into Sherlock's neck, his voice trembling just so.

"We'll blame Mycroft," Sherlock shrugged against him, causing John to let out a laugh that nearly had him melting.

The moment ended however when a punctuating cough broke through the air, "I'm sorry, but would you mind telling me what's going on?" Lestrade asked, trying very hard to keep the disbelief from his voice, "Sherlock, who is this?"

Sherlock scoffed at that, releasing John and pulling the left lapel of his coat aside to rummage in an inside pocket, "really, Lestrade, I'd think even you lot could figure this one out," he said, his tone relaying exactly how much of his attention he felt the conversation deserved, which was minimal at best, before finding what he was looking for.

From his coat pocket, right above his heart, Sherlock produced a gold band, much too big for his own thin fingers. Without sparing Lestrade a second glance, his eyes locked solely on the man before him, he slipped the band on John's left ring finger.

The pregnant silence that filled the room was nearly suffocating, even to Sherlock, "Near god, Lestrade, are you all really this daft," Sherlock rolled his eyes as he reached around John's neck to pull the dog tags from beneath his uniform, dangling from which was another gold band much too small to belong to John.

John, who decided to show a bit of mercy as Sherlock retrieved the band from the chain, extended his good hand towards Lestrade, "My name is John Holmes-Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps and Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I'm Sherlock's husband."

"Oh!" Lestrade took the offered hand, "he never, um..."

"Mentioned me?" John let out a soft chuckle before shooting Sherlock a faux-stern glance.

Sherlock shrugged, finally slipping the band onto his own finger and returning the tags back around John's neck, "never came up."

"I'm sure," John smirked before turning back to Lestrade, "you're Inspector Lestrade, I presume, I must thank you for allowing Sherlock to assist you on cases, it's good for him really, especially since I've been away."

Sherlock let out a huff of protest that John ignored.

"Pleasure," Lestrade smiled, still in a slight state of shock, mostly at how completely normal the man before him seemed to be.

"I'm sorry, are we just skimming over the fact that the freak has a husband?" Sally cut in suddenly.

"I'm sorry?" John released Lestrade's hand to turn towards Sally and Anderson, who were grouped in the doorway with matching looks of indignant disbelief.

"Well, something's got to be bloody wrong with you if you've willingly shackled yourself to a freak like him." Anderson said, his face pulled in a sneer.

"What are you two?" John asked, his tone almost amused, "a pair of middle school bullies? 'Freak' really? How positively juvenile. I was under the impression the Scotland Yard was exclusively hiring grown adults, I suggest you start acting like it. Also, I'd appreciate you lot not insult my husband to my face, or at all really, if you don't mind.

"On that note," John turned back to Sherlock, "are you about wrapped up?"

"Hm?" Sherlock took a moment before seemingly remembering why he was there in the first place, "oh, no not quite, would you like to help?"

"Of course," John answered with a smile that, Lestrade noted, seemed too eager for a normal person.

The two crouched down beside the body, knees and shoulders touching.

"Asphyxiation, pills most likely, passed out choking on vomit, possibly a seizure," John listed off, "Mycroft sends me newspapers, I'm guessing this is a part of the string of recent suicides, that are most definitely serial murders, pills forcibly taken somehow. She's in her late forties, a professional person going by her clothes."

"Wait, hold on, what?" Lestrade asked, staring expectantly at the back of the men's heads.

"In media, I'd say," Sherlock fired back at John, ignoring Lestrade, "based off this atrocious shade of pink. Traveling to Cardiff, intending to stay for just one night based off the size of the suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked, resigning himself to the fact they would eventually circle back around to justifying the murder accusation - hopefully.

"Yes, suitcase," Sherlock confirmed, still talking mostly to John, "where is it though? Her hotel?"

"She never made it to her hotel. Look at her hair, she colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she’d never have left a hotel with her hair still like that." John offered.

"The killer dumped it nearby then, we'll need to go dumpster diving."

"Delightful," John shot Sherlock a grin that was not at all sarcastic, despite the activity that had just been presented to him, "it'll be bright pink, just like the rest of her, shouldn't be too hard to find."

Sherlock nodded, then moved on, "She's married for about ten years, not happily, had a string of lovers, none of them aware she's married."

Lestrade thought momentarily about calling their bluff, not sure how anyone could glean so much information off so little, but thought better of it, "Why Cardiff?" He asked instead.

"Her coat," Sherlock answered, looking at Lestrade like a tiresome child asking too many questions, "it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain within the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She turned it up against the wind.She’s got an umbrella in her left pocket but it’s unused and dry. Not just wind, strong wind - too strong to use her umbrella."

"We know from her suitcase that  
she’s staying over night so she must have a come a decent distance. But she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours, 'cause her coat hasn’t dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" John looked over his shoulder at Lestrade

"Cardiff." Sherlock said, both men offering Lestrade a nod before turning back to the body.

"We need to find that suitcase, she must've had a phone or an organizer, something that will tell us who Rachel is," John taps the floor near where the beginning of the name has been scratched into the floor, "she did this after the killer left as she was dying, meaning the killer didn't stick around, which probably means she didn't know the killer. I'd bet you this isn't sentiment, whoever, whatever Rachel is, it's information, most likely a password. Which just solidifies the fact that we need to find her luggage."

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

"Back of her right leg. Tiny splashes on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her, with her right hand - you don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious could only be an overnight bag." Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"That everything then?" John asked, his hand braced on his knee.

"I believe so," Sherlock nodded as they stood.

"Shall we eat at Anglo's before or after?" John asked, linking his arm in Sherlock's offered elbow.

"After, you know we tend to work up an appetite after a search," Sherlock said, a fondness in his voice Lestrade had never heard before, as they began to walk towards the doorway.

"I'm sure Mycroft has informed him we'll be by at some point, he'll have our table ready whenever we get there."

"Will his meddling never cease?" Sherlock asked as they passed through the doorway, never sparing any of the room's occupants so much as a glance.

"Probably not." Lestrade heard John answer as they entered the stairwell.

After that, the conversation fell out of range and Lestrade found his gaze wandering to the forgotten cane John seemed to no longer have a need of.

"Dear god," he breathed, "there's two of them.

 


End file.
